


Dancing with Myself

by gurli



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Daddy Kink, M/M, Voyeurism, also, bc why not, explicit masturbation, maybe some character study but i mean the majority is just masturbation, that's it that's the fic, there's sort of implied taoris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 02:37:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4504416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gurli/pseuds/gurli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not that Zitao doesn't like other people, he just likes himself more. (Alternatively: Zitao jacks off to the thought of himself because nobody else is good enough.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancing with Myself

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally posted on tumblr for the prompt "tao + tao" and it ran away a bit. the title is from the billy idol song bc that song is 100% about masturbation. alternative title was blister in the sun bc that song is also 100% about masturbation.

It starts when Zitao is seven and his the wushu instructor makes him watch his own posture in the big mirror. He looks at his own reflection, and then he never really looks away. 

Zitao is aware of how good he looks. He wears his beauty with pride, preens under attention, loves being photographed. His friends tell him he’s vain and he tells him they would be too if they were as hot as him. It shuts them up. When Zitao is sixteen his friends are so used to being asked to take his picture, sometimes they ask themselves. If they’re out for a walk and Zitao’s steps slow down just for a second, Jie’s hand automatically shoots out.

“You want me to take your picture?”, she asks and the answer is always yes.

A year later, when Zitao is seventeen and alone in a mass of trainees in Seoul, he falters a bit. Looks around at the other kids, at their small noses and pale skin and for a few weeks he’s unsure. He gets sent to the doctor’s for a nose job after three months and the other trainees congratulate him. The surgeon is a kind woman in her upper forties who takes one look at his nose, shakes her head and sends him home. The Chinese manager he’s with explains that the scars and swelling won’t be able to go down in time for debut and Zitao doesn’t know if he’s relieved or not. 

”It’s because your nose is so big they’re afraid you’re going to fuck up your balance if you get it done,” Chanyeol says over dinner and Zitao hasn’t known the boy for long enough to know if it should be hurtful or not. It isn’t.  
 ”Or because nose beautiful is without surgery,” he shrugs ”Unlike yours.” 

Chanyeol’s chopsticks slow down half-way to his mouth as he grumbles out:

”It’s ’is beautiful’ not ’beautiful is’.”

—

After four months, Zitao shows off his wushu. If he’s being honest, he doesn’t know why it’s taken so long for the company to make him show the others what they signed him for but he follows orders. It’s late March and the practice room is clammy, Zitao heard on the news that it’s the hottest spring since ’82. Somewhere during practice, between pushups and too many round house-kicks for him to remember, Zitao has pulled his shirt off. It’s normal for him, back in Quingdao he never worked out with a shirt because he doesn’t like the way the fabric feels when you sweats. If the way the others are looking at him now is anything to go by, it’s not normal for them. He nods at them in greeting and can’t help but notice how Yifan looks everywhere but at him. Zitao remembers seeing Yifan coming out the shower, tall and pale and trying to cover his soft stomach. Now Zitao looks at himself in the mirror, tan skin and the cut-out plane of his abs and stretches just for show, like the fifteen different tumbles he does afterwards aren't going to be impressive enough. 

The instructor has him do his stage routine, thankfully without music, and Zitao closes his eyes after a second just to savor the familiar weight of the staff in his hand. When he’s done, it’s quiet for a while and then Baekhyun whistles. The others nod in agreement.  
 ”I thought you did like taekwon-do or something,” Jongdae says ”Not this ninja stuff.”

Zitao realizes he should probably act coy at the praise, that he should feel a bit exposed where he’s shirtless in front of the other members. But he knows what he looks like in the mirror, and he sees the way the other’s eyes follow the line of his back when he stretches so he just preens and laughs. 

—

They don’t say it in the interviews, but the reason they shower more than one person at a time is because otherwise you’d have to wait for the others to jack off in the shower every morning and even though Sehun probably could come in under the minute - the other’s last a bit longer. But some mornings, on the off chance they’re not doing anything even though it’s two months after debut and Zitao feels more like a rag doll than a person, they get to take their time. Today is one of those days.

Zitao sleeps until eleven, just because he can. He wakes up to Minseok yelling at Luhan over the sound of cars crashing and suspects Minseok lost at Mario Kart for the 578th time. He stretches in bed, kicking off the duvet just to look at the way his skin contrasts against the white sheets. He feels warm and when he drags a hand down his chest, arousal spreads like a wave down to the tip of his toes.  
 ”Is there somebody in the shower?” he yells into thin air, the easiest way to communicate in the dorm.

”No it’s all yours,” Yixing yells back from somewhere ”Just please don’t use my shampoo.”

Zitao nods, even though Yixing can’t possibly see it, and swings his legs over the side of his bed before padding out towards the showers.  
 ”Can’t you put on some clothes?” Yifan asks from the kitchen table as Zitao snatches an apple from the counter. 

”Uh, no,” he answers and thinks that if he tries hard enough, he could probably feel the way Yifan’s eyes follow the swing of his hips out the door. He also thinks that if he could, he’d watch his own hips swing out of the door as well, so really it’s all good.

The bathroom door closes with a snick, and then he’s alone in the bathroom with nowhere else to be and a full body mirror. It’s always better like this, when he can watch himself and it’s not just imagination. When he can watch the trail his hand makes across his chest, where he lets it pinch a nipple just for the pleasure-pain of it and then the way he cups his dick through his briefs. 

He’s already a bit hard, just enough for the slow rub of his palm to feel nice and for his dick to start filling up. He pulls back his hand for a second, watching the outline of the shaft grow more defined. Zitao wonders for a second if other people do the same thing, if they enjoy watching their own body as much as he does, but then he properly cups his dick and squeezes and all thoughts trickle out of his head as arousal properly settles in his bones.

He lets his hand trail circles just beneath his navel, the goose-bumps following the line of his happy trail down to where the other hand is applying steady pressure to his dick. He meets his own gaze in the mirror, licks his lips and wishes (not for the first time) that he’d actually be bold enough to record himself doing this. Zitao imagines what it’d feel like, not being recorded - but watching himself writhe on video. He’d set the camera up in the bedroom, he thinks, so he could watch the way his spine would arch up from the bed when he let a spit-covered finger trail down from his balls, over the perineum and ghost around his hole. He’d look so good, cheeks flushed and eyes lidded as he maintained eye contact with the camera. Maybe, Zitao thinks, maybe he’d be vocal. He’d sigh contentedly when he first released his dick from the briefs, and as he’d spread the precum he’d leaked over the shaft he’d mewl. A sweet little sound, he imagines, something that’d start high in his throat and escape through parted lips. He cracks open an eye he doesn’t remember closing, and sees the actual wet patch he’s made on his briefs.

”A-ah,” he breathes out, just barely more than a sigh, as he slowly drags the elastic of them down.

His dick is pretty, Zitao thinks. It curves up onto his stomach, and a bit to the right. The head is shiny and pink and he can’t help but bring his thumb up to his mouth from where it’s been smearing out the precum. The image of him in the mirror tasting his own precum, and the taste of it in his mouth feed off of each other and Zitao can feel his hips stutter as they try to find friction. He coats fingers in spit, moans quietly around them as he watches himself hollow his cheeks around three digits. Maybe in the video, he thinks as he lets his index finger and thumb form a tight circle around the head of his cock, maybe in the video he’d have a dildo. Something flesh-coloured, with a good size to it. He imagines himself on all fours on his bed, slowly grinding his aching dick into the covers as he bobs up and down on the dildo. He’d be sloppy, so that the wet sounds would make it onto the video, and he’d moan at the way it would fill up his mouth just on the right side of painful. 

He slowly drags his foreskin back, lets the cold air hit the fully exposed head and he pulls in a sharp breath through his teeth at the rush of need that flits though him. He’d look so wanton on camera, he imagines, ass shiny with spit from where he’s fingered himself, humping the mattress as he sucked on the dildo. Maybe he’d moan a bit, maybe he’d even pull off the dildo and look straight into the camera to speak.

”Wish this was your cock, daddy,” imaginary video slut Zitao would say ”Wish this was your cock filling my mouth so nicely, daddy, that you would let me drink every drop of your milk. Taste so good, daddy…”

Zitao looks up at himself in the mirror, pink cheeks and a hand pumping his shaft quickly, almost painfully. He looks at his lips, pulls one of them into his mouth and bites into it to make it red, make it look like he’d sucked dick. He licks them once, twice, and mouths ’daddy’ just to see the way his lips look when they shape the word. He mouths it again, hips stuttering into his grip and he fixates at how the head looks when it bobs up through his hand. 

He imagines video slut Zitao would finger himself open just enough for it not to hurt when he fucked himself down on the dildo. He tightens his grip even more and imagines how he’d look riding the dildo, how it would look slipping in and out of his ass and how his cock would bounce with every flick of his hips. Zitao imagines Zitao coming, untouched on the dildo, white ropes of cum painting his thighs and that he’d moan a final ”daddy” as he came, back arching and body convulsing. Zitao imagines Zitao licking the cum of his fingers while looking straight into the camera and he comes, painting the tiles of the shower with cum, voice stuck in a whine as his vision blares white.

Afterwards, Zitao lets the shower-head rinse the cum from the tiles and he thinks maybe next time he’ll film himself with his phone. He stands in the too-hot shower with Yifan banging on the door telling him to hurry up and he thinks maybe next time he’ll even let someone watch.

**Author's Note:**

> if you didn't hate this find me on tumblr @zitaotrash


End file.
